


The World Needs Sherlock Holmes (And John Needs Him Too)

by HobbitFeels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mary Morstan Doesn't Exist, Angst, Brief Mention of Blood, Implied Torture, Injury, John Loves Sherlock, John Misses Sherlock, Love Confessions, M/M, No graphic description of torture, Pining John, Post-Reichenbach, Protective Mycroft, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, gunfire, text confessions, text fic, text fic leads to story fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:26:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2497880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HobbitFeels/pseuds/HobbitFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John texts Sherlock's old number after the fall as a coping mechanism.  He doesn't know Sherlock is still alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Миру нужен Шерлок Холмс (и Джону тоже)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3568145) by [secondsecondbest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondsecondbest/pseuds/secondsecondbest)



> We're going to assume Mycroft has assigned Sherlock's number to another phone Sherlock now carries or recovered his old one for him to make this a little easier on ourselves.
> 
> Text guide--
> 
> _John_
> 
> **Sherlock**
> 
> Mycroft
> 
>  
> 
> This got me to thinking--  
> http://vowofsherlock.tumblr.com/post/100697024597/john-texted-sherlocks-number-the-entire-time-he-was
> 
> It wasn't a direct prompt, nor is this a request filled, but I wouldn't have thought of this if not for that, so there you go.
> 
> I loosely based the timeline off this--  
> http://bakerstreet.wikia.com/wiki/Sherlock_Timeline

30 November, 9:54 pm

_I can't bring myself to delete you out of my phone, you know._

 

_Why would..._

 

_What an annoying dick you are, Sherlock. I can't even ask you why you did what you did. You had to know how out of my mind it was going to drive me._

 

_I guess Mycroft can't bring himself to shut your phone off anymore than I can bring myself to delete you, because all these texts are going through. Maybe he's still monitoring your activity._

 

_Hi, Mycroft, if you are._

 

_I know you're just as gutted as I am right now, probably more._

 

_No, not more. I can't imagine anyone continuing onward feeling worse than I feel._

 

_I suppose someone else could have been issued this number, though._

 

_Hello, if you are a stranger seeing these, I'm sorry. Text me "wrong number" and I'll stop._

 

_I'd almost be happy if there was someone on the other end of these._

 

_Nothing._

 

_Well, at least I'm not bothering anyone._

 

 

10 December, 5:50 pm

_I miss you, you know._

 

 

25 December, 8:47 pm

_What a shitty Xmas it is without you to deduce the gifts._

 

_What a shitty Xmas it is without you._

 

 

1 January, 12:01 am

_And a shitty New Year, too._

 

_I thought I could do it, living at the flat without you, but I couldn't. Do you have any idea what it was like?_

 

_No, probably not. Half the time you didn't know if I was there or not, anyway._

 

 

14 January, 6:44 pm

_I make too much food, now. I forgot how to cook for one. Although it is nice not to have to have a five minute argument getting someone to eat before a meal--ha ha._

 

_That is a lie. It is not nice. I miss it._

 

_There's little I wouldn't give to have the privilege of trying to convince you it is time to slow your arse down long enough to gulp a couple bites of something._

 

 

20 January, 7:07 pm

_I had Dim Sum the other night. It almost made me cry._

 

_Okay, fine. It did make me cry._

 

_You won't tell anyone will you, Sherlock? No, you wouldn't. You'd embarrass me in front of dates, but you never revealed the worst that you knew about me, not really._

 

_God, what I wouldn't give for you to embarrass me in front of someone right now. You could even tell Lestrade about the time you caught me shaving my chest._

 

_Or tell Mycroft about my tattoo. Of course, Mycroft has probably seen it...along with the one you never saw._

 

_Hi, Mycroft._

 

 

29 January, 6:57 pm

_Do you know how depressing it is, always knowing how full the milk is?_

 

_I even miss the toes._

 

_Okay, so I don't miss the toes all that much._

 

_I do miss the violin, though._

 

 

2 February, 11:13 pm

_This is so fucking hard._

 

_Do you know why it is so hard, Sherlock? Ella tried to get me to say it, but I couldn't. If I couldn't say it to you, I'm not going to say it to anyone. Especially not my bloody therapist._

 

_Why couldn't you have let me in? Told me you were having these dark thoughts? I wouldn't have let you be alone. Ever._

 

_I believe in you. I never stopped, not once, not when you had the gun on me, not for a second._

 

_I was so wrapped up in you, in who I was when I was with you. God, what a team._

 

 

3 February, 1:29 am

_Can you believe I enjoyed being handcuffed to you? Yet another impossible adventure with Sherlock Holmes._

 

_No, not just Sherlock Holmes._

 

_With my friend, Sherlock._

 

_My best friend, Sherlock._

 

 

6 February, 10:02 pm

_I would have faced it with you, you know.  Whatever came our way with all that mess--the police, Moriarty, and all that.  The truth was on our side. I tried to help exonerate you, but without you I had no access, no authority. How fucking ironic. All I have are my blog and my memories._

 

_And my regrets._

 

_I regret that you felt there was no other way. I regret that maybe, somehow, Moriarty or Brook or whomever the hell that lunatic was, maybe he killed you somehow. Maybe you couldn't tell me on the phone, but if I had been there, maybe? Maybe I could have stopped him, or shot him. I would have killed that bastard in a second if I thought he was going to take your life away._

 

_I probably would have gone to jail, but it would be better than this._

 

_The world needs Sherlock Holmes._

 

_I need him, too._

 

 

9 February, 2:33 pm

_I don't know if I told you, but I'm working full time at a different clinic, now.  I'm not filling in for maternity leaves or anything like that anymore._

 

_I can hear you in the back of my mind whenever it gets tedious, screaming, "Bored!"  Don't think I should be shooting up walls in the exam room, though._

 

 

15 February, 6:15 pm

_I let myself run out of milk and bread just to pretend I was annoyed with you about it. It only made me feel more pathetic._

 

 

16 February, 12:22 pm

_I'm going to the shops after work today. Harry thinks different clothes would make me feel better. I told her that was a female thing to say and she called me a sexist pig._

 

_I think I fished for that insult on purpose, just to get something other than sympathy for a change._

 

_People have been tiptoeing around me since you've been gone. Well, when they talk to me at all. I'll see Lestrade now and again, but I never hear from Mycroft. I suppose that should come as no surprise, though. It wasn't as though he were my brother, too._

_Hi, Mycroft._

 

 

16 February, 4:21 pm

_Lestrade's ears must have been burning. He just asked to come around later. I can always put off going to the shops. I confess, it will be nice seeing a friendly face._

 

 

17 February, 01:07 am

_Lestrade looks rough. Anderson has apparently gone a bit 'round the bend, too. Seems he has decided you were the real deal, after all, and is convinced somehow that_

 

_You know what, forget it. I can't allow myself to think that._

 

 

17 February, 1:25 am

 

_You fucking git, if you are still alive, I might very likely kill you again._

 

_Okay, so I won't, but fuck. Is that what this is? Is that why the phone hasn't been turned off yet?  Does Mycroft know where you are?_

 

_ARE YOU GETTING EVERY ONE OF THESE, YOU BLOODY BASTARD?_

 

_Fuck you, Mycroft._

 

 

17 February, 3:03 am

_I'm sorry, Sherlock._

 

_And Mycroft, too, I suppose._

 

 

_17 February 4:23 pm_

_I will confess a part of me has been hoping, wishing, even praying that this was all some elaborate plan to get the upper hand on James Moriarty. I keep waiting for the secret sign, for Mycroft's car to whisk me away for debriefing, for anything._

 

_Even an empty text, maybe with just a . or a % or something._

 

_You'd laugh if you were here, Sherlock. I stared at my phone for probably ten minutes, waiting to see if you would._

 

 

18 February, 1:22 pm

_I understand Anderson in a weird way. It is easier to hope you lied about death than to see it as the truth._

 

_I can't imagine how I'd feel if I thought I was the one who put you on that roof._

 

_That's a lie._

 

_I've wondered if I had, if our last row..._

 

_I can't think of it, even now._

 

 

23 February, 11:46 pm

_Isn't it funny? Finally got around to the shops. I came home with a new coat, some shirts, a scarf that suddenly seems to look a lot like yours..._

 

_I'll admit it, I'm fucking pathetic. I bought a scarf like yours on purpose. And your expensive shampoo._

 

_I'm neither confirming nor denying I sat in the corner of the shower and cried when I used it._

 

_But I slept well, breathing you in._

 

_That's not a normal thing for a bloke to say to another bloke, is it?_

 

 

25 February, 6:39 pm

_I ran into Angelo at Tesco, of all places. He didn't say much. He just looked at me sadly and gave me an enormous hug. I've never seen him at a loss for words before._

 

_I should probably get around to seeing Mrs. Hudson, too. I miss her so much, but going back? I don't know if I can. Seeing her is probably going to be hard enough. She'll start in with the weeping and you know I never could stand to see her cry. Maybe I'll put it off until next week._

 

 

1 March, 12:21 am

_I drank the other night. I drank myself half blind. I tried to text you only god-knows-what, but I was so drunk I accidentally turned off my phone instead. Probably better that way. Who knows what I might have said?_

 

_I had dragged out all my clippings and photos I saved from our time together. Thank goodness I didn't rip anything._

 

_It didn't help my hangover, having to face it all sober the next day._

 

_I put it all away except for one of the photos we had taken for the paper after a case. I look like a knob but you..._

 

_Did you know? How bloody damn gorgeous you were? Did you?_

 

_You must have. Someone who thinks, say, they look like a knob wouldn't wear clothes tailored so perfectly to the contours of their body like that._

 

_That was weird, wasn't it? I probably shouldn't have said that._

 

_Damn, I'm not even drunk this time._

 

_I'm really, really hoping your brother isn't reading these now. That would be a difficult one to explain._

 

_Hi, Mycroft._

 

 

4 March, 12:18 pm

_I went out after work the other day, met up with an old Army buddy, and he convinced me to try a little skirt chasing again. I wound up snogging a pretty brunette in an alley outside the pub, but I choked when it was time to "seal the deal," as they say. I wanted to, and God knows I probably needed to, but it felt wrong._

 

_Sometimes, I wish you were still here to deduce me._

 

_Sometimes, I'm so glad you aren't here to deduce me._

 

 

6 March, 10:42 am

_Work is boring. I watch the clock each and every day. It is a far cry from working on a case with you and looking up to realize it is already dawn._

 

_It didn't even have to be a case for me to lose all track of time with you. I guess it is like that with one's friends._

 

_My best friend._

 

 

8 March, 7:13 pm

_I went to see Ella again. She was harping on me not continuing my blog, so I confessed I was texting your old number. She made a face, but I couldn't tell what it meant. I bet you could've._

_She thinks the blog is more important, though. What does she know, anyway?_

 

 

10 March, 3:23 am

_Tonight is a difficult night for me, Sherlock. I'm feeling your absence something fierce. If it were you, if it were Mycroft and I talking about it, we would describe it as a "danger night."_

 

_You know I was never deep into the hard drugs, though. Do you know what my "danger nights" were before I met you?_

 

_Sitting in my beige little bedsit with my gun in my hand. Sometimes I would run the length of the barrel across my lips, just to feel the smoothness of it._

 

_Don't get concerned, though. I never put it in my mouth._

 

_That's a lie. I'm sorry._

 

_I don't have the gun out tonight, don't worry._

 

_You saved my life, you know? Meeting you. I should have sent Mike a thank you note and some chocolate or fruit or something._

 

_It wasn't just the danger and excitement, though. It was living there with you, knowing I wasn't alone, knowing we were sort of in this together somehow. It was bugging you to eat and sitting around watching telly. It was breakfast and the paper. It was the faint smell of chemicals when you had been home working on this thing or that all day. It was you pretending you could predict fortune cookies and watching you pick the peanuts out of your takeaway so you could eat the whole pile when you were done._

 

_Do you have any idea how much I miss you?_

 

_Do you have any idea how much I loved you?_

 

10 March, 8:31 pm

_Funny the confessions one will make in the middle of the night, yeah? What is it about 3 or 4 in the morning that acts like truth serum?_

 

_I wasn't able to tell Ella, and I never could tell you, not when it mattered, but there's no point in trying to play it off now, not when I've known for so long._

 

_I love you._

 

_As in, in love._

 

_I'm in love with you._

 

_And I need you to come home._

 

_If you are alive, if you are anywhere in the world, please. I need you to be alive almost more than I need to breathe air myself._

 

_I wouldn't push you or pressure you. I wouldn't even hug you if you didn't want me to._

 

_That's a lie, I would absolutely hug you._

 

_I'm sorry that you had to die for me to find the courage to tell you. I wish you would have known before. I'm not so arrogant to think it would have made the difference for you...but then again, maybe I am. Who knows?_

 

_I love you, Sherlock._

 

_Hi, Mycroft._

 

 

 

*****

10 March, 8:33 pm

Don't even think about it. 

 

**Leave me alone.**

 

I'm serious, Sherlock. Not so much as single word from you. 

 

**Then bring me home.**

 

You are not done yet. 

 

**I don't care.**

 

Have you forgotten why you did this? You are not finished yet, and as long as you are not finished, John is in peril. 

 

**He needs me.**

 

He needs you to finish this more. 

 

**I need him.**

 

Radio silence, so to speak, is important. If there is any clue, any hint that John knows anything about you being alive or your whereabouts, it is not only the mission that is compromised. His very safety will come into question. 

 

**Fine.**

 

I promise, the sooner we complete our task, the sooner you may put this behind you. 

 

**Then let's get it over with.**

 

You will be getting word tonight on the next contact. Good night, brother mine. 

 

 

 

*****

**I love you too, John.**

Sherlock stared at his confession, hovering in the text box, unable to send it.

"Soon, John," he whispered to himself. "Soon."

He wasn't quite sure he believed it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's desperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing with the timeline and only semi-canon.

With more fear than he had felt in months, Sherlock surveyed his situation. He was captured, outnumbered, bleeding from the nose, and being all but dragged through a rather fortified outpost. At his best condition (in which he was considerably _not_ ), it would take a stroke of luck or an ally on the inside to come remotely close to getting out.

They roughly threw him in a windowless room and slammed the door after him. Sherlock heard the disheartening snick and clang of a considerable lock. On the other side of the door, Sherlock heard one of his captors barking orders in Serbian that he was to be stripped, bound, and interrogated as soon as possible. There was a reply Sherlock could not quite make out, but the first voice came back to say, "Then we execute him."

Sherlock looked around rapidly, assessing his situation as quickly as possible. There was nothing at his disposal.

Not knowing if he had seconds or minutes before his captors returned to divest him of his belongings and carry out his _interrogation_ , he pulled out his phone and hastily tapped out a message to Mycroft. He was too deep undercover and too far inside Serbia to hope for rescue, he knew, but it was all he had left.

 

15 May, 11:43 pm

**Mission compromised. Wainwright shot, possibly dead. They left him on the ground when they took me. Belongings about to be confiscated. They plan to kill me too. Cannot see a way out of it, though there could be hope if they transfer me out of my holding cell.**

**If the worse should happen, take care of John.**

 

Slow minutes crept by and frigid dread seeped into Sherlock's very bones. Over the past several months, he'd had only too much time to reflect on his life--and John. If only John was there now, or if Sherlock could have had the courage of a man with nothing left to lose when they were still running up and down the streets of London...

John already thought him dead, so Sherlock supposed his newly imminent demise wouldn't be much worse for him, but Sherlock felt the pang of regret for possibilities unrealized. He opened John's messages, staring at the last one. John hadn't sent another text since his confession of love. Sherlock had missed the semi-regular contact and had Mycroft check in on him to make sure he hadn't come to harm. Mycroft reported back that John was well, if a bit subdued. After the fourth week or so of silence, Sherlock decided it would be keeping with John's deeper, poetic nature for him to have decided to stop texting just there. He could picture John thinking, "What else needs to be said?"

Sherlock could have answered, "Everything."

He was staring at John's last two text bubbles and his still-typed, unsent reply when he heard gruff voices and the lock on the door release. Fear clenched his gut, spreading cold throughout his limbs. If he was going to die, he wasn't going to die without John knowing. John deserved to know. He hastily tapped the button.

 

16 May, 12:11 am

**I love you too, John.**

 

The voices stayed outside the door, discussing the best way to shackle him up so he could be accessed from both sides. One asked the other if he had brought the whip and a bucket, while the other one mumbled something garbled, Sherlock only able to make out, "Before he loses consciousness."

Just before the door opened, Sherlock managed to send a final text.

 

 

16 May, 12:13 am

**I'm scared, Mikey.**


	3. Curious Developments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John both hit a brick wall on their way to hope...though Sherlock hadn't had much to start.

15 May, 11:14 pm

 

_Sherlock? Is that you?_

_Is this happening?_

_Don't fuck with me, if you're not Sherlock._

_I beg you, a man's life is on the line, here. Namely mine._

_Mycroft?_

_How are you not answering me?_

_Sherlock, please be you._

_Bloody bastard, whoever you are. How can you drop a text like that and leave?_

 

15 May, 11:31 pm

 

_Phone didn't even ring, just went straight to voicemail. Typical._

_If this is a joke from whomever this number now belongs to, you've gotten your laugh. I apologize for having texted so much, though it has been weeks since the last one. I don't know why you would pick now to mess with me._

_Please, this was my best friend's number, and he died, and I've had a hard time letting go. All you ever had to do was tell me to piss off, and I would have stopped. I'm begging you to end the joke now. Text me that you are a stranger and to piss off and I won't text or call again. I'll even forgive you. Eventually._

_I'm serious. If you don't text me again, I'm going to blow up this phone trying to find out if my friend is alive. That's what you would do, too, isn't it?_

 

16 May, 12:03 am, text to Mycroft's number

 

_Mycroft, I haven't texted you in a very long while but I received a text from Sherlock's old number._

_I don't think it was a wrong number, because I've been texting it since he died._

_I hope you'll appreciate how embarrassing it was to admit that to you._

 

16 May, 12:40 am, text to Mycroft's number

 

_Dammit Mycroft, you're not answering me either?_

_I'm serious. And I know that text was meant for me, because it was the answer to the last thing I texted him weeks ago._

_I've been through all the scenarios and I don't think it is someone new at that number messing with me._

_I think Sherlock is alive._

 

16 May, 7:32 am, text to Mycroft's number

 

_I think you know he is alive, Mycroft. I think you have known all along._

_I don't know what is going on, or what you have him involved with, but you can't leave me like this._

_I'm going to get some answers, or get a MI6 bullet in my skull for prying into State secrets. Either way, this gut-wrenching misery is going to end._

*****

Sherlock struggled to keep a calm demeanor as his captors roughly hauled him off the ground and yanked at his clothes. There was still a chance, however small, he might yet talk his way out of this, but he would have to keep a clear head in spite of the fear and adrenaline racing through his body.

Seconds before he lost his trousers, an urgent, panicked voice shouted from the hall, joined by a second. Translating quickly, Sherlock realized they were shouting, "Commander! The Commander is here!" 

The goons manhandling him froze. 

"What is he doing here? He never comes out this far!" one of them said.  
The other replied, "I've never laid my own eyes on him."

They were interrupted by a higher ranking official in a smart uniform. 

"Silence! The Commander requires this prisoner."  
The man on Sherlock's left said, "But we had orders to break him and execute him."  
"I did not give you permission to address me," the official barked. "Orders have changed. This man carries sensitive information that can neither be trusted to you nor lost by your...overzealousness in interrogation. If you were to inadvertently kill him before we found out what we needed to know, your own executions would be next."  
The man on Sherlock's right blinked. "He's that important? And he got this close?"  
"Do you see now why it is a matter of security that he is transferred? The Commander himself has chosen to do what needs to be done. He trusts no one else, not even a driver. Now," the official turned to Sherlock. "Dress. Quickly. Do you understand?"

Sherlock _did_ understand, but he did not want this man to know he spoke their language. He remained silent. 

The official picked up Sherlock's shirt, shook it in his direction, then threw it at him. Carefully, Sherlock dressed as best he could with ripped fabric and missing buttons. The official nodded, confirming that was what he had expected Sherlock to do. Once put together, the official shouted more commands to Sherlock's captors.

"Bind his hands and his feet." He leaned into Sherlock, and though he didn't believe Sherlock understood him, he still snarled, "You are going with The Commander. If you behave yourself, death will be mercifully swift. If you cause trouble, you'll beg for the end days before it comes."

Sherlock was carried to a waiting vehicle and shoved ungently in the back. There was no one else with him. Though it was dark, he did his best to take stock of his surroundings. A black (and doubtlessly bulleproof) partition separated the driver from the back seats. Like a luxury vehicle, there were two bench seats where he was, one facing front and one facing back. However, like a police vehicle, there were no handle mechanisms on the door, nor visible and unlockable locks. Interesting. There was nothing Sherlock could possibly utilize for escape in his position, not the odd way they had him bound. His hands were tied together, and tied once again up near his heart, with the rope around his chest. They had not thought to confiscate his phone, but they certainly made sure he couldn't get to it. There was nothing to do but wait.

*****

"Where is he?!" John burst into The Diogenes Club shouting. "Mycroft! Mycroft Holmes!"

Once again, he was forcibly dragged away from the common room, eventually intercepted by someone who led him to a familiar face in an even more familiar reception area. 

"Where is he?" John demanded.  
Anthea coolly replied, "Where is whom?"  
John shot her a withering look. "You know bloody well I'm looking for Mycroft Holmes."  
"He's not here," she stated, unintimidated.  
Sarcastically, John shot back, "Yeah, I'm sure he's not."

John stalked over to Mycroft's office door, banging on it. 

"Mycroft! This is John Watson and you better have some fucking answers for me!"  
"Dr. Watson, I assure you he is not in there," she said patiently.  
"And why should I believe you?"  
"Check the doorknob."

John turned the knob and found it unlocked. He walked into Mycroft's office. Every thing was unnervingly neat and the air smelled almost musty, as though no one had been in it in a while. He glanced back at Anthea, sheepish and disheartened. 

"Dr. Watson--John--he has been gone for weeks now."  
"Gone?"  
"Out of the country, and that is all I've leave to tell anyone. You know how it is."  
"Thank you," John said quietly, backing out of the room. "I'm...I'm sorry. It's just-"

John thought of telling her Sherlock had to be alive, that he had received a _text_ \--THE text-- and partially wondered if she already knew far more than she was letting on. How mortifying if Anthea had known all this time that Sherlock might not be dead and John hadn't! In the end, he decided not to ask her at all. She wouldn't be able to tell him anything Mycroft hadn't allowed, anyway. Besides, the pitying look she was already giving him was too much to take. 

"Be well, Dr. Watson," she said in parting.  
"Yeah. Yeah, you too."

*****

Dejectedly, John made his way back home. Not a single one of his texts to Mycroft or Sherlock had been answered. John had been turning himself inside out, staring at his phone until dawn. Fueled on nothing more than raw pain, nerves, and hope, his plan had been to confront Mycroft in person, to _make_ him clarify what was going on. That having failed, John did not know what to do next. How could he be expected to endure this mystery? 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While a stranger drives Sherlock who-knows-where, not knowing anything at all drives John up a wall.

Sherlock faded in and out of consciousness. He fought to retain the pitiful amount of awareness his body would allow, annoyingly unsure how much time had passed since he had been shoved in the backseat of the vehicle. A wave of adrenaline brought his mind back online quite suddenly, aided by a sharp noise--some sort of machinery--followed by the sound of gunfire and a gut-roiling swerve of the vehicle. There was a shout from the driver.

_It sounded like..._ thought Sherlock... _but it couldn't be_. 

The partition rolled down, though the car didn't stop.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?"  
"Mycroft?"  
"Sherlock, the car must have had a locator I failed to find and someone realized I was not driving you in the correct direction. Regardless, I cannot pull over. I have to get you to where our detail is waiting for us. It is the only chance we have." 

Mycroft sounded _wrong_. 

"What's wrong with you?"  
"Listen carefully, Sherlock. In a few moments, we'll be forced to stop and we'll have to move fast if we want to survive. The best I can offer you is this--there is a gun in the passenger glove compartment and another in a holster under my left arm. If I cannot make it..."  
"I'm still tied."  
Mycroft swore. "Hands or feet?"  
"Both, but wait! Mycroft, why wouldn't you be able to make it?" 

The sound of more gunfire and a helicopter obscured the answer, though the car came to the predicted stop.

"Mycroft? MYCROFT!"

The door to Sherlock's left opened and Mycroft pulled him out. There was a flash of metal in the darkness, Mycroft groaning in pain, then another glint. In less than ten seconds, Mycroft had cut Sherlock loose with what had to be an incredibly sharp knife. He turned to make a remark noting as much but Mycroft cut him off frantically.

"No time, Sherlock! Run! There--do you see?"

Sherlock saw Mycroft's people rushing toward them. A moment later, he saw Mycroft fall to his knees. Only then, and only owing to the sparse cabin light from their stolen vehicle, he noticed the bloody left side of Mycroft's military uniform. He shouted Mycroft's name again as they were both seized, their rescuers helping them escape as pops of gunfire sounded in the near distance. In his fading alertness, Sherlock recognized it as belonging to a specific model of semi-automatic weapon, not standard in Eastern Europe, though quite common to British Special Forces. 

He couldn't...  
recall...  
its...  
name...

*****

John was a bundle of adrenaline and anxiety, the very picture of a frenzied bloke who had spent his most recent days nearly crawling out of his own skin. He came close to actually doing so when the phone in his hand blooped.

Your ride is waiting outside, Doctor Watson.

"About bloody time," he growled to no one. 

So anxious was he, he did not pause to change, comb his hair, nor simply cast a glance in the mirror. Running down the stairs, he could not even string his thoughts together in coherent sentences. 

_Sherlock._  
_Answers._  
_Safe?_  
_Please._  
_Sherlock._

John virtually launched himself through the rear door of the black car that awaited him at the curb, mind clearing enough to locate several more words than he had had on his way down--though woe be to Anthea when he unleashed them.

Anthea was not there. 

In her usual spot was a man. Though seated, it was obvious he was tall, fit, and John did not doubt the fellow was also armed. They made eye contact, sizing one another up. John surmised this man, whomever he was, either had strict orders to tell John nothing or knew nothing himself about the current situation. Therefore, he sat in silence for the duration of the ride. 

Roughly twenty minutes later, they reached their destination. The man gestured for John to exit the vehicle, following him out uncomfortably close behind. Glancing around, John didn't know where he was. He had not been taken to a warehouse nor a car park, but they were definitely indoors. Another black car, the one he recognized now as Mycroft's ( _"The wheels, John. You see but you do not observe."_ ), was parked next to them. The driver of his own vehicle got out, his appearance sharply reminding John of his back seat companion. A passenger exited from the front, too: this bloke's stature was burly in addition to tall and fit. The three men walked him to a door. One held it open, one walked in ahead, and the third ushered John in. 

Mycroft stood from a chair in the otherwise spare room and it did not escape John's notice that the other three gentlemen had closed the door firmly behind them. It _also_ did not escape John's notice that Mycroft had his shoulder and arm in a sling. Mycroft was paler and thinner than John had ever seen him. It was that in tandem with the injury--and not the bodyguards--that kept John from losing his cool the moment he opened his mouth. 

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said in greeting. "I have heard you have been eager to speak with me."  
"You--" John took a breath and stretched his head to the left side in an attempt to calm himself. Through gritted teeth, he said, "You knew."  
"I do apologize, Dr. Watson. National security dicta-"  
John cut him off. "Where. Is. He?"  
"Quite correct, I realize now I should have started with that first-"  
"-Damn it all to hell, Mycroft!" John shouted. "Where is he?"

The three men stepped forward when John's voice raised, though Mycroft commanded them to stand down with a slight wave of his hand.

"In no condition to deal with your inevitable temper over the present circumstances and their obvious, undeniable conflict with the story we have had to pass off as the truth for the past several months, Dr. Watson, which is why you are here with me first."  
Instantaneously, John's fury turned to worry. "No condition? What's wrong? Can I see him?"  
Mycroft smiled, almost fondly. "I have no intention of keeping you apart any longer than necessary, though it _is_ necessary for me to give you a briefing first."  
"Matter of national security?" John asked acerbically.  
"Nothing so mundane," Mycroft replied. "I cannot allow you to stroll up to Sherlock with your verbal guns blazing, if you'll forgive the metaphor. Additionally, if I know my brother, he will naturally omit details I think it crucial for you to know about how and why he came to be there."  
"Sherlock never omits anything, Mycroft. If I ask him what time it is, he gives me a history of how the Swiss came to be known for watches."  
"Oh, he loves to showcase that mind of his, but he keeps his heart quite veiled. He would let you hate him for what he had to do--or spend hours telling you _how_ he did it--before he would explain to you all of the reasons why it was necessary."  
"So this is where you come in, then? Explaining to me first?"  
"Precisely."  
John folded his arms. "I'm listening, though I would rather you hurry it up."

Mycroft explained Sherlock's terrible decision on the rooftop, how he had been forced to make it, and why he had to keep John in the dark. Mycroft informed him Sherlock had had his phone returned to him just ahead of leaving the country, though he could not use it without discovery. When Mycroft got to the part describing how he had to go undercover to get Sherlock out (and the aftermath of their nearly-botched escape), John gripped his arms where they were crossed so tightly he would later have bruises. 

"I feared I would have to send for you in hospital, or have someone do it on my behalf had my wounds been more severe," said Mycroft. "Sherlock narrowly escaped fresh injury as we fled, though he was not in a good state when I found him."  
John's demeanor had softened in an instant. "Is he...? I need to see him, Mycroft. I-I swear to you I won't yell, not until he is better, anyway. Please say he is going to get better."  
"He asked for you repeatedly. He also made various threats towards me as well as the whole of the British Government if I would not relinquish his phone while he was conscious, though his doctors have since kept him mostly otherwise since his arrival. Now you know he is alive and why he had to put you through thinking he was not, I'm confident I can trust you not to stress his present condition with demands of further explanation at this time?"  
John ran his tongue behind his lips, nodding. "Yes."  
"Good. You definitely received more information from me than you would have Sherlock, anyway. I will not be going with you, but two of these gentlemen will take you to him directly from here and are under orders not tarry on their way. I have made sure the hospital has paperwork and clearance in order for you to be allowed to see him, any time of day or night."  
"Mycroft, I..." John faltered, words stalling at the crossroads of a confession, a thank you, and a breakdown.  
Much more gently, Mycroft said, "I know, John. I...I was able to see the texts."  
With none of his earlier venom left, John said, "Git."  
"I do hope you will not squander this opportunity by attempting any such foolishness as pretending you meant your sentiments in a fraternal manner. "

Mycroft used his good hand to remove his pocket square, shake it out, and dab his pale, damp forehead. It seemed as though merely standing to speak to John was an incredible strain on his body. The doctor in John hoped Mycroft would be receiving additional medical care of his own before the day was out. 

"I believe it is time for you to go, now. We both have places to be. Gentlemen?"

Mycroft motioned to his bodyguards. One came to stand next to him while the other two stepped aside for John to exit. 

When John reached the doorway, Mycroft called his name. He turned to face him, eyebrows raised in question.

"Do you remember what I read to you from your therapist's notes the first time I met you?"

John sniffed. The memory wasn't pleasant. 

"Yeah, you said I had trust issues."  
"Despite the regrettable surface lie of the past several months, I want you to know," Mycroft paused, wincing at a pain that jolted through his injury. "I want you to know that there is no one I can think of in whom you would have been better served to put your trust in than Sherlock. He would move heaven and earth to protect you."  
"Why are you saying this to me?"  
Mycroft smiled, though the pain still flared. "Because, John, it happens to be true."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
